Mrs. Hamilton shivered again, setting her rose-colored ruffles to trembling. “Nonsense? Oh, you must not call it that! She may come to haunt you for doubting her.”
Miles almost laughed at the earnest expression on Mrs. Hamilton’s face. Despite her shivers, her cheeks were pink with delight. She was obviously one of those ladies who took a great interest in spiritual matters; perhaps she even held those newfangled séances in her drawing room.
He just hoped she would never invite
him
to one of them.
“I take it you have some belief in those tales, Mrs. Hamilton?” he said.
She turned her guileless gaze onto him. “Don’t you, Lord Ransome?”
“I believe in common sense, in things I can see,” he answered slowly. “There are enough things in this world for us to be frightened of without imagining such things as specters and demons. There are things like war and poverty, young men killed in their very prime, families left to grieve. There is carelessness, and good people starving in the streets.”
Mrs. Hamilton frowned, as if she hardly knew what to say to that. She turned her attention back to the gentleman on her other side.
Miles looked away from her to find Lady Iverson watching him closely. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were no longer wary. For just one moment, they were sympathetic.
Then she dropped her gaze down to the table, her sablelike lashes sweeping across her cheeks.
“That was well said, Lord Ransome,” she said quietly.
“Not exactly dinner table conversation, though,” said Lord Dunston. “Particularly not for the ladies!”
Lady Iverson gave him a small smile, and raised her gaze back up to Miles. Some of the wariness was back, but there was something else, as well. Something Miles could not quite identify.
“Perhaps not,” she said. “But it was honest, and all too often honesty is something sorely lacking in our society. We hide behind our politeness, our falsehoods.” She shook her head with a little laugh. “Now I am being maudlin! I apologize, Lord Dunston. Now, what shall we discuss? The weather?”
She was saved from saying anything about the weather when Miles’s mother rose from her chair and said, “Well, ladies, shall we take our tea in the drawing room?”
Lady Iverson stood up, and, with a last smile for Lord Dunston and himself, departed in a whisper of velvet. Only the faint fragrance of some spicy perfume remained to remind Miles she had sat beside him for a while.
The tall French doors in the drawing room that led out to the garden were half open to the cool night air, to the breezes that carried the scent of late-blooming autumn flowers. Sarah drifted toward them, her teacup in hand, glad of the coolness against her skin, the gentle silence to combat the women’s chatter behind her. When she was certain no one was paying her any attention, she pushed open one of the doors and slipped outside.
There, she found herself in an enchanted garden.
Someone had strung white and blue Chinese lanterns in the trees and placed them along the edge of the terrace. They glowed with the same silvery, opalescent light as the moon, casting a glow on the trees and shrubs, making the neat flower beds into something exotic.
Enchanted by the unexpected sight, Sarah drifted over to stand by the marble balustrade and look down into the garden. Below her, a fountain sent a spray of water into the air, dancing and murmuring, blending its music with the voices of the women that floated from the open door.
Soothed by the beautiful sight, by the peace of being alone at last, Sarah leaned against the balustrade and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply of the fresh night air.
What an odd supper it had been. Odd, and disquieting. At least, she had ceased to feel all fluttery and school-girlish when Lord Ransome was near! She had begun to be quite annoyed with herself for such ridiculous and unwarranted reactions. She had met handsome men before, and none of them had
ever
made her want to giggle.
Tonight, she had felt more like herself again, even when seated right next to him for the entire length of supper. Yet something even more unsettling had happened, as she listened to him speak of the evils of poverty and war, of how humans had no need to look for imaginary ghosts in their lives. She felt she had seen a tiny glimpse of the
real
Lord Ransome, as he was inside, and not just his golden outer self.
She had a glimpse of a man who saw things, felt things deeply, even as he hid behind a practical military-man facade. She felt that he probably concealed that side even from himself, and it only came out in very small bursts, as it had tonight.
Sarah found herself wanting to know more of that side of him, to talk to him, confide her own thoughts and fears. Such a man as she had glimpsed in Lord Ransome tonight would surely understand those fears.
But then, she might just be imagining all of this. He might truly only be what he chose to show the world—a genial gentleman, who had enjoyed his military life and was settling into one of country gentry.
Sarah prided herself on her practicality, her sensibleness, but she knew that, deep inside, she harbored a kernel of Mary Ann’s romanticism. She had found her girlhood refuge not in novels as Mary Ann did, but in historical works. She went away from her irresponsible mother, and the sisters she was often expected to look after, into the worlds of medieval knights and ancient Greek philosophers. She had longed for a life different from her own, and that was what Sir John Iverson offered her when they met.
He had offered her learning, and a work that would benefit people for generations to come. He had told her that history was not dead, but something that lived around them and affected them all the time. Sarah had been fascinated by this, and had come to imagine John as a sort of intellectual white knight, who would rescue her and carry her off into her childhood fantasy world.
It had not proved to be exactly like that, of course. John
had
taught her much, and she loved the work they did together. But he had been so much older than her, so set in his ways and often bewildered by her desire to socialize. Many was the night when he had sent her off to a rout by herself while he stayed home with his books. He had taken her away from the old life, it was true, yet he had scarcely been any sort of white knight.
She had misjudged Sir John because of her girlish fantasies, and she did not want to misjudge Lord Ransome, too. Especially since misjudging him could cost her her work, before she was close to being finished with it. She could not read more into his flash of sadness and wisdom than there had been.
Sarah’s teacup clattered in its saucer, and she looked down at it distractedly. She had forgotten it was there, had even forgotten she stood on the night-swept terrace all alone. She lifted up the cup and took a sip of the now cold liquid. It was smoky and strong, bracing, and it brought her back to herself.
“Lady Iverson?” a voice said behind her. “Are you quite all right?”
Sarah turned around to find Lord Ransome’s mother, Mrs. Browning, standing in the open doorway. Her pretty face held an expression of concern.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Browning,” Sarah answered. “I am well. I just needed a bit of air; I never meant to stay out here so long.”
“I quite understand. It was growing rather stuffy in there.” Mrs. Browning came out onto the terrace to stand beside Sarah, her silken skirts rustling and flowing around her. “It is almost time for the gentlemen to rejoin us, and I thought we could set up some tables out here for the cards. Do you think it is warm enough?”
“It’s a beautiful evening; I think it’s a lovely idea.” Sarah looked back out to the garden. “Everything is so perfect tonight, Mrs. Browning.”
“I wanted it to be special, for my son’s first gathering here at Ransome Hall. That is why I left Bath to come here.” Mrs. Browning laughed. “I am not much of a country sort of person! But one must make some sacrifices for one’s children.”
“How long are you going to be at Ransome Hall?”
“Oh, a week perhaps. There is a ball in Bath I absolutely must return for. But I hope that tonight will help ‘launch’ Miles, so to speak, into the neighborhood, and encourage him to socialize more.” She leaned toward Sarah, and added confidingly, “You would not think it to look at him, but my son is really very shy.”
Sarah felt her eyes widen with surprise. “Shy, Mrs. Browning?”
“Yes. Oh, not with his Army friends. With them, he is as voluble as anyone could wish. But with other people, Society people in particular, he is quite shy.” Mrs. Browning gave Sarah a speculative glance. “You seem a sensible sort, Lady Iverson, and my son appears to like you. I hope you will help him out a bit when I have returned to Bath?”
Sarah hardly knew what to say. Lord Ransome
liked
her? As far as she could see, he treated her no differently than he did anyone else. “I—will certainly do my best, Mrs. Browning.”
Lord Ransome’s mother nodded, as if satisfied, and turned around to go summon the footmen to bring out the tables. As they hurried about, carrying chairs and table linens and relighting lanterns that had gone out, Sarah stood still by the balustrade, her mind spinning. Lord Ransome, shy? He genuinely liked her? His mother wanted her to help him?
This evening could scarcely grow any stranger. It was almost like one of those odd dreams that had been plaguing her of late. For a moment, she wished she could run away back to the hunting box where she lived, and crawl under the bedclothes with a book about the Vikings.
But she could not, of course. The party was still young, and she had card games to get through. All too soon, the servants had finished their task and the guests came out onto the terrace in a jeweled horde. There was much laughter and jostling as everyone searched for their places, and flirtatious shrieks and giggles. It was obvious that some people had been imbibing more than tea in there.
Sarah wished that she had some of whatever spirits those had been.
Mary Ann came up to her side, and took her hand. “Here you are, Sarah! I feared you had gone off back home.”
Sarah smiled at her. “I could scarcely leave you, now could I? I just came out here for some fresh air.”
“I talked to Lord Dunston’s granddaughter, Miss Milton, in the drawing room. She enjoys novels, too. Would it be all right if I just sat and talked with her while you play cards? I am such an absolute fool when it comes to cards.”
That was all too true, Sarah thought. For such a smart girl, Mary Ann just never could seem to remember if the ace was high or low. “Of course, dear. Just do not go wandering off anywhere.”
As soon as Mary Ann hurried off with her new friend, Mrs. Browning took her place. “Lady Iverson, could you make up a whist table with my son, and Mrs. Hamilton, and Lord Dunston? Miles is the only one without a partner.”
Sarah glanced past her to see Lord Ransome standing beside a table, with Mrs. Hamilton chattering away beside him. He nodded politely at whatever she was saying, but he watched Sarah and his mother. When she caught his eye, he gave her a faint, almost pleading smile.
And her flutters came right back onto her.
“Of course, Mrs. Browning,” she said, careful to keep her expression politely blank. “I would be happy to.”
“Oh, dear, Lord Dunston! Never say I have made us lose again,” Mrs. Hamilton cried. She tilted her golden-curled head, her face the very picture of consternation.
“Of course not, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lord Dunston said gallantly. “My fault entirely.”
Miles grinned at them. What a most diverting evening it had been, he thought, much more than he had imagined it would be when his mother was planning everything out. He had actually enjoyed himself, and ceased to look about for his uncle whenever someone called him “Lord Ransome.” It had been—enjoyable.
And that was mostly due to the fact that Lady Iverson was next to him for a good deal of the evening. Supper had moved quickly, as he looked at her, at the way her hair gleamed in the candlelight, the animation on her face when she spoke of the Vikings. When she left the dining room, a great deal of the light and air seemed to depart with her, leaving the evening dull and dry, full of masculine talk of politics and port.
He glanced at her now, sitting across from him at the whist table. She laughed good-naturedly at Mrs. Hamilton’s and Lord Dunston’s words, and folded her own cards in her hands. “Or perhaps we won because Lord Ransome is such a superior cardplayer?” she said.
“He is certainly that,” Lord Dunston agreed.
Lady Iverson smiled across the table at Miles, and he couldn’t help but smile back. Her cheeks were flushed with the pleasure of the game, and her wariness had yet to return. She looked relaxed and happy.
Miles wished things could always be just like this. But, of course, they could not; all he could do was enjoy this very moment.
“Where did you learn to play cards so skillfully, Lord Ransome?” she asked. A footman stopped to offer her a glass of sherry from his tray, and she took it and sipped at it. The pinkness in her cheeks brightened and warmed.
Miles found it difficult to concentrate on her question, as he watched her sun-touched throat move when she swallowed. The tiny pulse at the base of her neck fluttered.
He looked back down at the table, at the scattered cards, and reached for his own snifter of brandy. He took a deep drink of it.
“Evenings were long and dull on the Peninsula,” he answered. “Cards were often all that lay between us and going mad with boredom. So I became quite adept.”
Lady Iverson gave him a sympathetic smile.
Mrs. Hamilton squeaked. “Oh, poor Lord Ransome! How perfectly fearful. You must be so happy to be home in England now, here in this lovely house.”
Miles turned to her. She was a pretty woman, if a bit silly and empty-headed, and she seemed kind. It appeared her husband did not appreciate that kindness, though; Mr. Hamilton sat at the table next to theirs, and whenever his wife laughed, he cringed. It was obvious that the Hamilton marriage was a mismatch, and they were only just starting out.